look the same. So pick up what's important.”
I quickly sifted through the pile. There was so much there that I felt lost at first. Then I developed a method. I picked a file and searched for key words inside, such as Iran, or nuclear, or chemicals. I immediately identified six such files and I gave them to Shimon. “Make photocopies of these,” I said. “But use discretion; we don't need every piece of paper, such as postal receipts or copies of documents when you have the original. The German secretary seems to keep many documents in triplicate, God knows why; don't repeat her mistakes.”
I progressed very slowly, reading each file under the ineffective light of the flashlight. I separated the files into two piles: the first for files containing significant information, the second for files that were unimportant. I was thirsty but didn't want to waste time by looking for water. The pile with interesting stuff grew taller. The amounts involved were significant. It seemed that the Iranians were willing to pay big bucks for the best machinery, parts, compounds, and chemicals. Most of the vendors were German, Austrian, and French, but I also identified Belgian and Swiss companies. The use of offshore companies was substantial. There were addresses of companies in Liechtenstein, Cyprus, Jersey Islands, and the Cayman Islands. Obviously the goods purchased from these companies hadn't been manufactured in these tax havens, which were most likely used to mask the true origin of the goods.
Many of the files had no connection to Iran. A quick look revealed that they documented substantial money movements during a period of two years, clean words for dirty work: money laundering for private individuals who had difficulties sharing their fortunes with others, be it their government's tax authority or their creditors.
Two hours went by, and Shimon with Yuval's help worked relentlessly in photocopying with their two state- of-the-art document cameras. “Did you see the DeLouise files yet?” I finally let my curiosity get the better of me.
“Yes,” said Shimon, “I think I did two already.”
A call came in from the outside. “Report progress.”
“We have more files than we could photocopy by the deadline,” reported Yuval.
The official word came from Benny in a coded message. “Continue with the copying until 5 A.M., which is almost two hours before sunrise, so you can still leave in the dark. Then remove all the cash in the vault and the files that haven't been copied.” I thought it was a smart move. When the break-in was discovered the bank would realize that, apart from the money, the burglars also took a few files to sell, to capitalize on them later.
I knew what Benny was plotting. We'd done it before. After the removed files had been copied Benny would anonymously engage underworld figures, who'd have no knowledge of what had gone on, to contact Guttmacher and offer to sell him these files. That move could help convince the Iranians that the break-in was perpetrated by thieves and not by a foreign-intelligence service. If Benny wanted to expose the Iranian clandestine nuclear- purchasing mission, his men would then tip off the police about the forthcoming transaction. All involved would be arrested and publicly exposed.
We barely exchanged any words. I finished going over the pile. “I'm done,” I reported. “What do I do? Wait for Yuval and Shimon until they finish, or return?”
“Sending a car for you,” came the response. It was a good move, reducing the number of people leaving the bank, thereby reducing the chance of being spotted. I was no longer needed at the bank, because only Yuval and Shimon had cameras.
“See you later,” I said, and started on my way down, escorted by Yuval carrying his flashlight. I got to the side door and tried to open it. It was locked. I put my ear to the door to hear if any noise was coming from the outside before I made another attempt. It was quiet. I tried the door again; there was no question it was locked, not jammed. I looked at Yuval, “You try.”
He did, but still we could not open the door. We quickly went upstairs to alert Shimon. “Where are the keys?” I asked. “The damn door is locked.”
Shimon raised his head in surprise. “The keys work only from the outside, and on the inside there is a latch that you have to turn.”
“I did just that but the door wouldn't open.”
Shimon went downstairs with us and tried the door. “You're right, it's locked, not jammed. I can break it, but I need to know if there is anyone on the outside who might hear me.”
Yuval radioed the sentinel, who was positioned in a rented office across the street.
“The coast is clear,” came the answer.
Shimon ran upstairs and brought a small toolbox.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I need to pick this lock, the mechanism seems to be stuck,” he said. “In a normal deadbolt lock, a movable bolt or latch is embedded in the door so it can be extended out the side. This bolt is lined up with a notch in the frame. When you turn the lock, the bolt extends into the notch in the frame so the door can't move. There are pins inside that are pushed correctly if you have the right key.” He took a long pick that curved up at the end out of the toolbox. After several attempts, the door was still locked. Precious photocopying time was being lost.
“Yuval,” said Shimon, “why don't you go back upstairs and continue copying while I try to unlock this door.” Yuval took his flashlight and climbed the stairs. I was standing next to Shimon. We took from his toolbox a tension wrench and a thin flathead screwdriver. We tried several more tries, to no avail.
“OK,” said Shimon, “I can break the door, but we risk being discovered and we'd need to leave as soon as I break it because we can't leave the bank broken open and continue to work upstairs. It'd be only a question of time before the police get our asses. We need to go to plan B.”
“Which is?”
“The one I thought of before we stole the keys: through the roof. We go out through a window on the third floor, or directly climb the roof if there is a way, and lower ourselves to a tree in the backyard of the bank.”
I wasn't thrilled with the idea. I never saw myself performing as a trapeze artist in a circus.
“Do the three of us need to do that?”
“No,” said Shimon with a smile, sensing my reluctance. “I'll do it and then try to open the door from the outside. Once in the street I can see if danger is looming.”
“Let's try it then,” I said.
We went upstairs, alerted Yuval on the change of plans, radioed central about the problem, and climbed the stairs to the third floor. The entire floor was used for file storage and was rather cramped.
Shimon lighted the ceiling with his flashlight. “Here, there are wooden stairs to the roof,” he said, “I can go through there. That will save me from climbing from the third-floor window. Wait here, I'll be right back.” He went downstairs and returned with a rope and tied it around his waist. “When I give you the word, tie the end of the rope to this column,” he pointed to a concrete pillar in the middle of the floor. “Once I'm on the ground, I'll pull the rope three times to signal you to pull back the rope. Then go downstairs to the door and wait for me there. Here, keep that for me,” he said, and handed me the rubbers from his shoes, his gloves, and his cap. “I wouldn't like to explain if I'm stopped wearing these,” he said with a smile.
Shimon climbed the wooden stairs to the roof, opened the latch holding a small wooden door on the ceiling, and pushed himself in. After five minutes, which seemed like eternity, I felt the rope tugged three times. I quickly pulled back the rope and hurried downstairs, waiting for him at the door. I was tense and restless. I waited for a few minutes but nothing happened. I didn't hear any activity next to the locked door. I heard cars passing and conversations in German, but no sign of Shimon. I went back to Guttmacher's office and asked Yuval to radio the sentinel outside whether he could see Shimon.
“He can,” came the answer, “but he can't approach the door. There's too much activity in the street. He's hiding behind a parked van waiting for the commotion to let up.”
I rushed back down to the door and waited. I heard the door lock being worked on, and a moment later it opened. “Quick,” said Shimon, “go out. Andy is waiting for you in a black Mercedes taxi one hundred yards up the street.”
I removed my shoe rubbers, gloves, and cap, and gave them to Shimon. “Your stuff is here as well,” I said, pointing to the floor, and slipped out the door while Shimon entered the bank, closing the door behind him. I started walking slowly up the street. The street was dark with few cars passing, many of them taxicabs and police. I saw Andy waiting for me in the Mercedes. He drove me back to the safe house.
As I entered the room I could hear the report: “Team two is outside the target and is on its way to the safe house.”
